Somethin' Dirty: Country Fever, Book 4

Dedication

“The secret to staying young is to live honestly, eat slowly, and lie about your age.”—Lucille Ball

Chapter One

The piercing wail rose and fell like a fire whistle, gaining in strength by the second. Griffin cracked an eye and came face-to-face with his alarm clock.

Fuck, had he really only just fallen into bed? Twenty-three minutes had passed between the time he’d stripped off his dirty jeans, T-shirt and boots splattered with the filth of pulling a calf, and now his infant daughter was wide awake and ready for six ounces of formula.

“Comin’, darlin’.” He rolled to his feet and padded in his boxers across the carpet. His little girl’s bedroom door was open, and he was assaulted by her cries.

In two strides, he came up against the wooden side of her crib. A glance at her fiery red face and flailing fists tugged his heartstrings.

Scooping her up with one hand, he cradled her against his body. Immediately her cry dropped a notch. She even gave a hiccupping gasp before gearing up with another air raid siren yell.

He flipped her neatly onto his shoulder and patted her back as he made his way to the kitchen. “Now, now, Lyric. You know your daddy isn’t gonna starve you. Let’s hope Nana made up enough bottles before she left.”

He pulled open the fridge, squinting at the glare of light, and saw rows of pre-made bottles lining the bottom shelf like soldiers prepared for war.

“Well, it’s a war against your hunger, right?” He dumped the bottle into the warmer and switched it on. Trial and error had taught him the bottle warmer was much faster than the pan of boiling water. Besides, he couldn’t overheat and scald his daughter or be forced to endure more of her screams while they waited for the bottle to cool.

He paced the kitchen, bare feet slapping the tile. The little bundle on his shoulder stiffened, ready to produce another wail, but he cupped her and brought her down from his shoulder to look into her face.

Those two dark blue, round eyes blinked up at him with all of the trust in the world. His heart melted.

“Lyric, what am I gonna do with you? If raising you alone is this hard now…” He nuzzled the peachy-soft place between her faint brows and inhaled her baby spice. “You better not give me any trouble as a teenager. Just warnin’ ya.”

Lyric created a perfect oval with her pink lips, smacking.

“I know you’re all ready for this delicious white stuff. Can’t wait for you to drink cold cow’s milk.” He shot a look toward the window. Through the darkness, the shape of the barn rose up. Not even half an hour before, he’d left a brand new calf with its mother after a long night of helping the gangly animal into the world.

“Lots of birthings going on, and I’m not even recovered from yours,” Griffin murmured. The bottle warmer switched from a red light to green, indicating it was finished. He plucked out the bottle and shook it. Before he got the nipple to Lyric’s mouth, she greedily rooted for it.

She latched on with a ferocious tug, drawing a rumble of laughter from him. He drifted into the open living area of the house he’d built with his own two hands. A long ranch with rooms that rambled one into the next, he’d outfitted it with hard wood, stone and as many creature comforts as he could. His ma had added a few feminine touches—throw pillows and lamps. For his birthday, which was two months after Lyric’s, his mother had given him a poster-sized print of Lyric’s first day on Earth.

Now she was four months old and the prize of his life.

He sank to the plush sofa. Every muscle in his shoulders and along his spine protested. Calving season had just begun, and he was already getting little sleep. How was he going to cope with the night feedings in addition to forty-odd head of cattle ready to dump their calves?

Lyric settled in the crook of his arm, and he let his head drop back. Closing his eyes, he drifted until the pull of her mouth on the bottle slowed.

Before he fell asleep, he withdrew the nipple and placed the baby on his shoulder to burp. Little Lyric could take a thumping from her daddy. None of those wimpy, fluttering pats. The thuds jarred her and she let it rip.

“That’s my girl,” he praised. Sleep descended on him, a blanket thrown over his head. He blinked at the bottle. One ounce left. If he didn’t feed it to her, she’d never give him peace.

He stared at her face as she sucked down the rest at a leisurely pace. For months he’d studied his daughter’s features, searching for his and her mother’s. Would she look like Miranda when she got a little older?

Something inside him hoped not. No doubt he’d made the wrong choice in Miranda. He’d met her at The Hellion, where she waitressed weeknights, trying to put herself through college. As always when he thought of their relationship, he kicked himself for dating a much younger woman.

At forty-two, he knew the man he was and what he wanted from life. He didn’t wait around for it to come to him. He went after it.

After he pursued her, Miranda had come willingly into his arms and his bed. For a time, he believed she was the one who would round out his life. The day she’d told him she was pregnant, he’d experienced a leap of joy.

But the pained and terrified look on her face revealed she was less than thrilled. All the diamond rings in the world didn’t make her want to have his child. But in the end, money had won out.

If it hadn’t been for his friend, Taylor, he never would have found out Miranda was at the abortion clinic until it was too late.

He let his mind drift over those deciding moments, eyes closed and Lyric resting heavily in his arm.

Griffin had hit the parking lot of the abortion clinic in a spray of gravel and dust. His pickup fishtailed, and he quickly stomped on the brake, which sent the back of the truck careening.

He narrowly missed plowing into a shiny luxury SUV—probably the damn abortion doctor’s ride.

Jerking the wheel, Griffin landed the truck in the handicap parking spot right in front of the doors. He yanked the emergency brake, and his cowboy boots hit the ground before the vehicle rocked to a complete stop.

The heel of his hand and his shout preceded him into the building. “Where the hell is she? I’m looking for Miranda Hanson.” He scoured the waiting room, shocked at the varying ages of the women there. Girls who could barely be out of elementary school to women with the first signs of gray at their temples speckled the room.

Jesus. She’s not here.

That could only mean one thing. Miranda was already in a room.

Griffin’s heart sank to the soles of his boots. Bile formed in the back of his throat. With a roar perched on his lips, he pushed through the door between the waiting room and the office space.

“Sir, you can’t be here!” A narrow-shouldered woman tried to block his path, but he pushed her aside with a gentle shove.

“I’m looking for Miranda. You tell me where she is, or I burst into every damn room in this hellish place!”

“No, you can’t do that. Sir—”

He swung his gaze left and right. A long hallway ran the length of the building, and about ten sterile white doors lined it. Behind those doors sat women in white paper gowns, awaiting their turn on the abortion table. His stomach hollowed out. Well, it might be all right for some—he wasn’t about to tell a woman what she could or couldn’t do with her body.

Except when it came to his child.

“Miranda!” he bellowed until his temples throbbed.

The receptionist followed him down the hallway, tugging on the sleeve of his worn denim shirt. “Sir!”

Two doors opened and nurses stuck their heads out. He strode through the office, boot heels thudding. What the nurses saw made them pop back into their rooms.

Griffin grasped a brass door handle and yanked the lever down. “Miranda?” The woman sitting on the table was hollow-eyed, shocked. Not Miranda.

Please don’t let it be too late.

He opened four more doors before he thundered to the end of the hall. A familiar noise was coming from behind the last door. He swung it open to the sound of pleading.

“Shit, I hear my boyfriend. He doesn’t want me to—”

“Damn right I don’t, woman!” Griffin slammed the door in the face of the receptionist and stared down Miranda, a nurse and the doctor who was examining her.

“I’m sorry, but you can’t be in here,” the doctor began.

Griffin closed his hand over the shorter man’s shoulder. “Listen, I’m the father of this baby. Surely you have rules about fathers? I get a say in this, so you can make this easy or not. I’m talking to Miranda.” With that, he propelled the doctor to the door and shoved him through it. A single glare at the nurse had her scurrying out too. Griffin slammed the door behind them.

Miranda screamed.

In an instant, Griffin was on her. She squealed and writhed like an escaped calf. Gathering both of her hands in one of his, he locked her to the examination table. The scent of sterile things brought the bile back to his throat.

He glared down into her eyes—eyes that had once shone with love for him. But things had changed. They’d fallen apart. He might have loved her back. But not after she’d made the choice to abort their baby.

“You’re having this baby, Miranda.”

She met his gaze, and a battle of wills ensued. He saw her determination to end this life, and it gutted him.

She twisted violently to break his hold on her, but he pinned her down with a knee on her thighs. The beauty he saw in her was still there, but worn under a mask. He didn’t want to know her anymore. Yet he wanted her to give his baby a chance, goddammit.

“Get off me, you—you—”

“Miranda,” he breathed, the tears hot on his tongue. He dropped his forehead to hers, holding her completely beneath him. “Please don’t do this. I’m begging you.”

“I just c-can’t have this baby, Griffin. I wish you’d understand! I’m not ready.”

No, she probably wasn’t. She was twenty years younger than him, and what an idiot he’d been to believe she was in the same place as he was in her life. He was ready for the church wedding and the ever-after. But she wanted to finish college, go on to get her doctorate in psychology. An infant didn’t fit into that plan.

“I know you’re not ready, Miranda. I fucking know. But I can help. I’ll do it all!”

“I couldn’t be with you, Griffin. Not now. Our time is past.” Tears leaked from the sides of her eyes, which were squeezed shut.

“I know that too. You made it clear you didn’t want me in that way anymore. But I am asking you for one thing.”

“I can’t—”

“Can. Miranda, I’m willing to pay you.”

She fell utterly still, her struggle ended with the proposition of money. As the daughter of a single mom, she’d never known abundance, and she was financing herself through college.

She stared up at him.

“Have this baby, and I’ll put you through school. I’ll pay for everything.”

“Books? Food? Housing? Pay off all the past loans?”

“Everything,” he vowed, voice as gritty as if he’d gargled glass.

Something dark shifted behind Miranda’s eyes, and he moved back, disgusted by how easily she’d been persuaded even as he rejoiced that he might break through her stubbornness.

He leaned away from her, keeping her hands still tucked inside his.

“And all I have to do is have this baby?”

He nodded, sick and thrilled at once. “And sign off it. I’ll take full responsibility. But the deal would be just like an adoption. I wouldn’t want you entering the child’s life five years down the road and confusing her.”

Miranda’s breath hitched. “Her?”

Griffin pushed off the examination table and backed away. If he didn’t get some air, he might throw up. But not pass out. A Wyoming rancher never fainted.

“That’s right—her. I had a dream about her, Miranda. Named her Lyric.”

Miranda’s face crumpled, and she plastered her face with her hands. “Like the song you wrote for me.”

“Right now I think I really wrote it for her. So what do you say? Have my baby, and I give you the education you crave. You’ll start out fresh without any debt.”

She lowered one hand from her face. Tears glistened on each of her fingertips and tracked down her cheeks. Cupping her hand over her belly, she heaved a rough sigh.